For every shrub, and every blade of grass, The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends, Or, if a southern gale the region warm, The traveller a miry country sees, And journeys sad beneath the dripping trees. Like some deluded peasant Merlin leads Through fragrant bowers, and through delicious meads; XLV. THE PIANO-FORTE. HENRY THE FOURTH expressed a patriotic hope to see the time arrive when every man in France should have "a fowl boiling in his pot." The anathemas of an able political writer * against music-playing in farmers' houses (very just if his calculation of the effect of it were the only one) do not hinder us from expressing a hope, that the time may arrive when every family that can earn its subsistence shall have its Piano-forte. Not to make them "fine and fashionable," or contemptuous of any right thinking; but to help them to the pleasures of true refinement, to reward them for right thinking and right doing, and make them feel how compatible are the homeliest of their duties with an elegant recreation ;—just as the fields and homesteads around them are powdered with daisies and roses, and the very cabbages in their gardens can glitter with sunny dew-drops, to those that have eyes beyond their common use. homely duty, who has a taste for an elegance; you may have another that shall cost little more than as many pence. Will the winds visit the poor one with less love? or the true ear hear it with the less rapture? One of the obstacles in the way of a general love of music, in this country, is the dearness of it, both print and instrument; and this is another effect of the mistakes of wealth. The rich, In Germany they have Piano-fortes in inns and cottages; why should they not have them in England? The only true answer is, because we seafaring and commercial Saxons, by very reason of our wealth, and of the unequal advance of knowledge in comparison with it, have missed the wiser conclusions, in this respect, of our Continental brethren, and been accustomed to the vulgar mistake of identify-having monopolised music, have made it costly; ing all refinement with riches, and, consequently, all the right of being refined with the attainment of them. We fancy that nobody can or will be industrious and condescend to a *Mr. Cobbett. A and the mistaken spirit of trade encourages the delusion, instead of throwing open the source of comfort to greater numbers. costly Piano-forte makes a very fine, and, it must be owned, a very pleasing show in a room, if made in good taste; but not a bit of the fineness is necessary to it. A Pianoforte is a harp in a box; and the box might be made of any decent materials, and the harp strung for a comparative nothing to what it is now. If we took a lesson from our cousins in Saxony and Bavaria, the demand for cheap Piano-fortes would soon bring down the price; and instead of quarrelling over their troubles, or muddling them with beer and opium, and rendering themselves alike unfit for patience and for action, the poor would "get up" some music in their villages, and pursue their duties, or their claims, with a calmness beneficial to everybody. We are aware of the political question that might be put to us at these points of our speculation; but we hold it to be answered by the real nature of the case, and, in fact, to have nothing whatever to do with it. We are an unmusical people at present (unless the climate have to do with it,) simply because of what has been stated, and not for any reason connected with questions of greater or less freedom. The most musical countries-Greece, Italy, and Germany-have alike been free or enslaved, according as other circumstances happened; not as music was more or less regarded; with this difference, that the more diffused the music, the more happy the peace, or the more "deliberate" the "valour*" The greatest among the most active as well as most contemplative of mankind have been lovers of music, often performers of it, and have generally united, in consequence, both action and contemplation. Epaminondas was a fluteplayer; so was Frederick the Second; and Luther and Milton were organists. In connexion with music, then, let us hear nothing about politics, either way. It is one of God's goods which we ought to be desirous to see cultivated among us, next after corn, and honesty, and books. The human hand was made to play it, the ear to hear it, the soul to think it something heavenly; and if we do not avail ourselves of it accordingly, we turn not our hands, ears, and souls to their just account, nor reap half the benefit we might from the very air that sounds it. A Piano-forte is a most agreeable object. It is a piece of furniture with a soul in it, ready to waken at a touch, and charm us with invisible beauty. Open or shut, it is pleasant to look at; but open, it looks best, smiling at us with its ivory keys, like the mouth of a sweet singer. The keys of a Piano-forte are, of themselves, an agreeable spectacle, an elegance not sufficiently prized for their aspect, because they are so common; but well worth regarding even in that respect. The colour of the white keys is not a cold white; or even when at their whitest, there is something of a warmth in the idea of ivory. The black furnish a sort of tesselation, and all are smooth and easy to the touch. It is one of the advantages of this instrument to the learner, that there is no discord to go through in getting at a tone. The tone is ready made. The finger touches the key, and there is music at once. Another and greater advantage is, that it contains a whole concert in itself; for you may play with all your fingers, and then every finger performs the part of a separate instrument. True, it will not compare with a real concert, —with the rising winds of an orchestra; but in no single instrument, except the organ, can you have such a combination of sounds; and the organ itself cannot do for you what the Piano-forte does. You can neither get it so cheap, nor will it condescend to play everything for you as the other does. It is a lion which has "no skill in dandling the kid." It is a Jupiter, unable to put off his deity when he visits you. The Piano-forte is not incapable of the grandest music, and it performs the light and neat to admiration, and does not omit even the tender. You may accompany with it, almost equally well, the social graces of Mozart, and the pathos of Winter and Paesiello; and, as to a certain miniature brilliancy of taste and execution, it has given rise to a music of its own, in the hands of Clementi and others. All those delicate ivory keys which repose in such evenness and quiet, wait only the touch of the master's fingers to become a dancing and singing multitude, and, out of apparent confusion, make accordant loveliness. How pleasant to the uninitiated to see him lay his hand upon them, as if in mere indifference, or at random; and as he dimples the instrument with touches wide and numerous as rain-drops on a summer-sea, play upon the ear the most regular harmonies, and give us, in a twinkling, elaborations which it would take us years to pick out! We forget that he has gone through the same labour, and think only of the beautiful and mysterious result. He must have a taste, to be sure, which no labour can gift him with, and of this we have a due sense. We wish we had a book by us, written a few years back, intitled "A Ramble among the Musicians in Germany," in order that we might quote a passage from it about the extempore playing of Hummel, the celebrated master who was lately in this country; but, if we are not mistaken, it is the hand of the same writer which, in so good a style, between sport and scholarship, plays its musical criticisms every week in "The Atlas;" for they are the next thing to an instrument themselves; and we recommend our readers to get a sight of that paper as often as they can, in order to cultivate the taste of which England at present seems to be so promisingly ambitious. By the way, we know not whether the Italians use the word in the same sense at present; but in an old dictionary in our possession, the keys of musical instruments are called "tasti,”—tastes, a very expressive designation. You do taste the Piano-forte the moment you touch it. Anybody can taste it; which, as we said before, is not the case with other instruments, the tone in them not being ready made; though a master, of course, may apply the word to any. "So said, his hand, sprightly as fire, he flings, And with a quavering coyness tastes the strings." There are superfine ears that profess not to be able to endure a Piano-forte after a concert; others that always find it to be out of tune; and more who veil their insensibility to music in general, by protesting against " everlasting tinkles," and school-girl affectation or sullen ness. but that it did not do so is manifest from his use of trumpets; while at the same time so fine beyond ultra-fineness was his ear, that there is a passage in his works, pronounced impracticably discordant by the whole musical world, which nevertheless the critics are agreed that he must have written as it stands*. In other words, Mozart perceived a harmony in discord itself, or what universally appeared to be such,-just as very fine tastes in eating and drinking relish something which is disliked by the common palate; or, as the reading world discovered, not long ago, that Pope, for all his sweetness, was not so musical a versifier as those "crabbed old English poets." The crabs were found to be very apples of the Hesperides. What we would infer from this is, that the same exquisite perception which discerned the sweetness in the sour of that discord, would not have been among the first to despise an imperfection in the tuning of an instrument, nor, though he might wish it away, be rendered insensible by it of that finest part of the good music it performed, which consists in invention, and expression, and grace,—always the flower of music, as of every other art, and to be seen and enjoyed by the very finest ears as well as the humbler ones of good-will, because the soul of a thing is worth more to them than the body of it, and the greater is greater than the less. Thus much to caution true lovers of music how they suffer their natural discernment to be warped by niceties "more nice than wise," and to encourage them, if an instrument pleases the general lovers of music, to try and be pleased with it as much as they can themselves, maugre what technical refiners may say of it, probably out of a jealousy of those whose refinements are of a higher order. All instruments are out of tune, the acoustic philosopher tells us. Well, be it so; provided we are not so much out of tune ourselves as to know it, or to be unable to discern something better in spite of it. It is not a pleasure, certainly, which a man would select, to be obliged to witness affectations of any sort, much less sullenness, or any other absurdity. Such young ladies as are perpetually thinking of their abstract pretensions, and either affectedly trying to screw up their musical skill to them, or resenting, with tears and petty exclamations, that they cannot do it, are not the most sensible and agreeable of all possible charmers. But these terrible calamities may be safely left to the endurance, or non-endurance, of the no less terrible critics, who are so merciless upon them, or pretend to be. The critics and the performers will equally take themselves for prodigious people; and music will do both parties more good than harm in the long-run, however their zeal may fall short of their would-be capacity for it. With respect to Piano-fortes not perfectly in tune, it is a curious fact in the history of As to those who, notwithstanding their presounds, that no instrument is ever perfectly intended love of music at other times, are so tune. Even the heavenly charmer, music, ready to talk of "jingling" and "tinkling," being partly of earth as well as of heaven, par- whenever they hear a Piano-forte, or a poor takes the common imperfection of things sub- girl at her lesson, they have really no love of lunary. It is, therefore, possible to have music whatsoever, and only proclaim as much senses too fine for it, if we are to be always to those who understand them. They are sensible of this imperfection; to among the wiseacres who are always proving their spleen at the expense of their wit. "Die of an air in achromatic pain ;" and if we are not to be thus sensible, who is to judge at what nice point of imperfection the disgust is to begin, where no disgust is felt by the general ear? The sound of a trumpet, in Mozart's infancy, is said to have threatened him with convulsions. To such a man, and especially to so great a master, every right of a horror of discord would be conceded, supposing his ear to have grown up as it began; Piano-fortes will probably be much improved by the next generation. Experiments are daily making with them, sometimes of much promise; and the extension of science on all hands bids fair to improve whatever is connected with mechanism. We are very well content, however, for ourselves, with the instrument as it is; are grateful for it, as a concert *We cannot refer to it in its place; but it was quoted some time since in "The Atlas." in miniature; and admire it as a piece of furniture in all its shapes: only we do not like to see it made a table of, and laden with moveables; nor when it is upright, does it seem quite finished without a bust on it; perhaps, because it makes so good a pedestal, and seems to call for one. Piano-forte (soft and strong) is not a good name for an instrument which is no softer nor stronger than some others. The organ unites the two qualities most; but organ (opyavov, instrumentum, as if the instrument, by excellence) is the proper word for it, not to be parted with, and of a sound fit for its nobleness. The word Piano-forte came up, when the harpsichord and spinet, its predecessors, were made softer. Harpsichord (arpichorda, commonly called in Italian clavicembalo, or keyed cymbal, i. e. a box or hollow, Fr. clavecin) | is a sounding but hardly a good word, meaning a harp with chords-which may be said of any harp. Spinet, an older term (spinette, thorns), signifies the quills which used to occupy the place of the modern clothed hammers, and which produced the harsh sound in the old instruments; the quill striking the edge of the strings, like the nicking of a guitar-string by the nail. The spinet was preceded by the Virginals, the oldest instrument, we believe, of the kind, so called, perhaps, from its being chiefly played upon by young women, or because it was used in singing hymns to the Virgin. Spenser has mentioned it in an English Trimeter-Iambic; one of those fantastic attempts to introduce the uncongenialities of Latin versification, which the taste of the great poet soon led him to abandon. The line, however, in which the virginals are mentioned, presents a picture not unworthy of him. His apostrophe, at the outset, to his unhappie verse," contains an involuntary satire : "Unhappie Verse! the witnesse of my unhappie state, Do I envy those jacks, that nimble leap Thus we have two out of our great poets, Spenser and Shakspeare, showing us the delight they took in the same species of instrument which we have now, and so bringing themselves near to our Piano-fortes. Queen Elizabeth is on record as having played on the virginals. It has been supposed by some that the instrument took its name from her; but it is probably older. The musical instrument mentioned in one of Shakspeare's sonnets is of the same keyed family. What a complete feeling of the andante, or going movement (as the Italians call it), is there in the beautiful line which we have marked! and what a pleasant mixture of tenderness and arcliness throughout! "How oft when thou, my music, music play'st Upon that blessed wood, whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st The wiry concord that mine car confounds, "Still virginalling Upon his palm—” says the jealous husband in the "Winter's Tale." Chaucer, Spenser, Shakspeare, and Milton, all mention the organ. Chaucer speaks of several instruments, but we cannot trace to him any other keyed one. It is rather surprising that the poets, considering the love of music natural to them, and their frequent mention of the art, have spoken of so few musical instruments-at least as if conversant with them in their houses. Milton was an organplayer, and Gay a flute-player (how like the difference of their genius!) Thomson possessed an Æolian harp, of which he seems to have been very fond. He has addressed an ode to it (from which the verses have been set to music, beginning "Methinks I hear the full celestial choir ;") and has again mentioned the instrument in his "Castle of Indolence," a most fit place for it. All the truest lovers of any one art admire the other arts. Farinelli had several harpsichords to which he gave the names of painters, according to their respective qualities, calling one his Raphael, another his Correggio, &c. And the exquisite little painting, by Annibal Carracci, in the British Gallery, of "Silenus teaching Apollo to play the pan-pipe" (together with a companion picture hanging near it) is said to have formed one of the compartments of the harpsichord belonging to that great painter. This is the natural magnificence of genius, which thinks no ornaments too precious for the objects of its love. We should like to be rich enough to play at imitating these great men, and see how much we could do to aggrandise a Piano-forte. Let us see: it should be of the most precious, aromatic wood; the white keys, ivory (nothing can be better than that); the black, ebony; the legs sculptured with foliage and Loves and Graces; the pannels should all be Titians and Correggios; the most exquisite verses out of the Poets should be carved between them; an arabesque cabinet should stand near it, containing the finest compositions; and Rossini should come from Italy to play them, and Pasta to sing. Meantime, what signifies all this luxury? The soul of music is at hand, wherever there are keys and strings and loving fingers to touch them; and this soul, which disposes us to fancy the luxury, enables us to do without it. We can enjoy it in vision, without the expense. We take the liberty of closing this article with two copies of verses, which two eminent living musicians, Messrs. Barnett and Novello, have done us the honour to set to music. The verses have been printed before, but many of our readers will not have seen them. We did not think it possible for any words of our own to give us so much pleasure in the repetition, as when we heard her father's composition sung by the pure and most tuneful voice of Miss Clara Novello (Clara is she well named); and the reader may see what is thought of Mr. Barnett's powers, by musical judges, in a criticism upon it in a late number of "The Atlas," or another in a new cheap periodical publication, called "The Englishwoman," heiress to the graces and good stock of her deceased parents, The Ladies' Gazette" and "The Penny Novelist," and uniting them both to better advantage :— ૮૯ Oh, since no joy of human mould Thus waits us still, Thrice bless'd be thine, thou gentle fold No change, no sullenness, no cheat, Thy saddest voice is ever sweet,— XLVI.-WHY SWEET MUSIC PRODUCES SADNESS. SWEET music, that is to say, "sweet" in the sense in which it is evidently used in the following passage,—something not of a mirthful character, but yet not of a melancholy one, -does not always produce sadness; but it does often, even when the words, if it be vocal | music, are cheerful. We do not presume to take for granted, that the reason we are about to differ with, or perhaps rather to extend, is Shakspeare's own, or that he would have stopped thus short, if speaking in his own person; though he has given it the air of an abstract remark ;-but Lorenzo, in "The Merchant of Venice," says, that it is because our "spirits are attentive." "I'm never merry when I hear sweet music," says pretty Jessica. "The reason is, your spirits are attentive," says her lover; "For do but note a wild and wanton herd, Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, Or any air of music touch their ears, You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, How beautiful! But with the leave of this young and most elegant logician, his reason is, at least, not sufficient; for how does it account for our being moved, even to tears, by music which is not otherwise melancholy? All attention, it is true, implies a certain degree of earnestness, and all earnestness has a mixture of seriousness; yet seriousness is not the prevailing character of attention in all instances, for we are attentive to fine music, whatever its character; and sometimes it makes us cheerful, and even mirthful. The giddier portions of Rossini's music do not make us sad; Figaro does not make us sad; nor is sadness the general consequence of hearing dances, or even marches. And yet, again, on the other hand, in the midst of any of this music, even of the most light and joyous, our eyes shall sometimes fill with tears. How is this? The reason surely is, that we have an instinctive sense of the fugitive and perishing |